


Visiting

by littlemiss_m



Series: HOME, a series [11]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Depression, Gen, Mother's Day, slightly too symbolic flowers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-30
Updated: 2018-03-30
Packaged: 2019-04-14 21:43:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14145204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlemiss_m/pseuds/littlemiss_m
Summary: It's Mother's Day. Gladio and Prompto visit their dead mothers.





	Visiting

**Author's Note:**

> i'm posting this a bit early because of Easter weekend. I'll be visiting my parents and since I won't be able to take my computer with me, I also won't be able to update until I get back on Monday or Tuesday. I'll get back to updating as soon as I'm home, but since the next piece will be a couple days late, I thought it best to let you all know so you'll know to expect it :)
> 
> This piece takes place at the end of Prompto and Noctis' third year of high school, roughly a year after Prompto's adoption.

To Prompto, one of the best parts of living with the Amicitias is the multiple running buddies for him to choose from. Clarus and Iris run with him only occasionally, on easy weekend mornings when the mood hits, but Gladio is a much more frequent jogger and joins him thrice a week, on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Sundays, and today boasts the last day of the week. It's about to be a bright morning outside, promising warmth and sunshine; the school year is almost over, summer and their holidays approaching fast, and Prompto wakes up feeling good and optimistic about the oncoming day.

He gets dressed in his running clothes and skips up to Gladio's door, knocking and waiting for permission before entering. He expects to find the other dressed in similar attire, shorts and a t-shirt, but to his surprise, Prompto finds Gladio in a full suit, fixing his tie in the mirror.

”Oh, hey,” Gladio greets him, then falters. ”Shit, I forgot to tell you, did I?”

”Uh, yeah,” Prompto says, stunned. ”Sorry, did something happen? I thought we were gonna go running.”

Gladio hums and finishes knotting his tie before answering. ”Yeah, so it's Mother's Day,” he says, glancing at Prompto, who feels his stomach drop. ”I'm, uh, I'm going to visit mom. Sorry, I've been doing this for years and didn't realize you wouldn't know that.”

”Oh, no, it's okay,” Prompto stutters, trying to grin. He'd completely forgotten what day it was, too lost in exams and spring showers and flowers blooming. It's not a day he personally has to think about; in fact, he tries not to, because the loss of his own mother is still an open wound in his heart. ”Sorry, dude, I'll just go.”

”Nah, it's okay,” Gladio says, shaking his head. He eyes Prompto for a moment, then grins out of sudden. ”Hey, uh, you wanna tag along?”

The question is so abrupt that Prompto finds himself startled. ”Um,” he mumbles, shocked and more than a little embarrassed. ”Why? I mean, it's your mom. Like, dude, your _mom_.”

Gladio shrugs and crosses his arms. ”Yeah, but you're family now, so,” he says. ”You don't have to if you don't want to, it's just a suggestion. Dad goes on mom's birthdays and Iris doesn't go at all since she's no memories of mom, so it'd be just us anyways. They're both gonna be at the service anyways.”

Prompto eyes Gladio, feeling dubious and a bit curious. He thinks about the offer, bites at his lip in indecision, then asks even though he already knows the answer: ”Where's she buried?”

He gets the answer he expects and nods his agreement before he can change his mind.

* * *

They eat breakfast and leave. It's early enough in the morning that the sun is barely halfway up its track on the sky, still hiding behind the Insomnia skyline, and the streets they pass are as close to empty is they ever get inside the Wall. Near the cemetery, they stop at a flower shop, and Prompto busies himself with a shelf of grave candles while Gladio gets his bouquet made. He can't hear the order, so when he turns around to see Gladio holding a bunch of highly colorful flowers in shades of purples and pinks, he's more than a little shocked; then he realizes there are only two types of blooms in the bouquet, and he can't help quirking an eyebrow.

Gladio rolls his eyes at him. ”Sorry to say this, kid, but the joke got old when I was like five,” then looks at the florist. ”Actually, have you got any sunflowers here? I know it's a bit early for them.”

”Sure, lots of people like them in the spring when the sun starts to come out, so we order plenty of them,” she says, smiling. ”How many would you like, sir?”

Prompto sputters, embarrassed and a little warm-hearted because he knows why Gladio wants an extra sunflower with his bouquet, even if he can't fully understand the action. The florist hands a single yellow flower to Gladio, who holds it together with the bouquet, and Prompto wants to say something about how ridiculous they both look, bying bright flowers while wearing black suits, but he keeps his mouth shut. Gladio doesn't say anything either, when Prompto picks up a lone candle and a box of matches.

* * *

Though the lands of Lucis are vast and at places sparsely populated, there's never been a lot of space in Insomnia, and despite its size, the Crown City only boasts one public cemetery. Back in the day, when the kings chose who worshipped what, people used to revere their death almost to the point of worshipping them, and so being buried inside the city walls was a privilege reserved for the rich and famous. The poor were carted to the outside of the Wall and buried there, and their living relatives either walked hours or even days to fullfill the requirements of worship, or endured ridicule and contempt by their peers.

Prompto thinks of the history lessons, looks at the cemetery sprawling around them, sees the small plaques on tiny slots of land, and tries to understand. He's seen one of the cemeteries outside the Wall, the one right next to the sea, where trees grow and flowers bloom and winds blow from the seemingly endless blue; thinking back to the scene, he cannot see why one would want to be buried here, why being laid to rest in this cold, hard place could possibly be considered a privilege.

”This way,” Gladio says, then leads Prompto towards the older side of the cemetery, where a small handful of slots have been reserved for families like the Amicitias or even those few Lucis Caelums who never felt the weight of a crown on their heads. Even on the newer side, there are only a few empty slots remaining, and none that hadn't been bought by someone or offered to another.

In a generation or two, everyone but the Crown will find their final rest outside of Insomnia. To Prompto, this doesn't matter, but to those whose roots reach deep into Insomnian soil, it's the end of a tradition.

They walk past an entire line of Amicitias, parents and children and lovers all buried together first in coffins, then little urns full of ash. The graves have actual headstones instead of the usual plaques, starting out grand and ornate, ending in a small slab of marble, and that's where they too stop. Prompto stays a few steps back, hovers awkwardly while Gladio goes on to place the flowers on the white stone. The sunflower with its long, sturdy stalk goes first, then the bouquet laid on top; the colors strike and clash against each other, the bright yellow of the sunflower, the blue of the irises, the purples and pinks of the gladioli, but somehow, it doesn't look wrong.

Gladio glances back at Prompto, rolls his eyes, and beckons him closer. They end up side-by-side, arms around each other, and after a moment Prompto rests his head against Gladio's side. ”How old were you?” he asks quietly. He knows it was soon after Iris' birth, around Gladio's first or second year of school, but isn't sure.

”Eight, almost nine,” Gladio answers. ”You weren't much younger, were you?”

”A few weeks before my seventh birthday.”

A year or two in difference isn't much but here it feels like an eternity. Prompto had just started pre-school, had been too young and inexperienced to know what dying meant, even when the group of men around the kitchen table kept on getting thinner and thinner. Gladio, on the other hand, had probably known death, and thus he'd known the loss of his mother. Prompto hadn't, until after months and months of waiting.

There isn't much else to be said. Gladio doesn't have a long speech planned, like the characters in movies always do; he stands still for a moment, head bowed, then pats Prompto's back and steps away from the grave. He looks at Prompto and the candle, waits.

”How're these slots numbered?” Prompto asks quietly, almost vacantly. He hasn't been here since his mom's funeral and though he knows the number of their slot, he doesn't know how to get there. Gladio explains the system, then leads them to the newer side of the cemetery, where most of the graves are stamped with a Crownsguard crest or two or three.

That was a thing, during the war: offering a slot for every person who stepped foot in the frontlines. John was there and after his first return home, he'd been gifted slot number 379.

Prompto knows they're getting close when he begins to spot graves with single red carnations resting on the plaques. Recognition hits him like a shock arrow and he recalls a bunch of adults laughing at a joke over his head; then he realizes there aren't that many people left alive who'd remember it, and that there's only one man who could have left the flowers.

”Something wrong, Blondie?” Gladio asks.

”Nah,” Prompto murmurs, ”just realized Cor's been here.”

”Yeah?”

Prompto nods, points at one of the carnations. ”Him, dad, and their friends had a joke about red carnations and funerals,” he explains. ”Can't remember what it was, though.”

Gladio hums low in his throat. ”Didn't realize he was so old-fashioned,” he comments. ”Visiting graves when it's not any big memorial day or anything.”

They arrive at the grave before Prompto can say anything. There are two plaques in the little square of land reserved for the family of John Argentum, his mom and dad next to each other once more. Prompto swallows the weight in his throat and looks around, counts the red carnations. They're all wilted to the point where the flowers look like rusting blood, but not so much that the maintenance staff would've taken them away; there's one over John's name, and a second, blue one, over his mother's.

Prompto's hands tremble when he tries to work the grave candle open. ”I haven't been here since mom's funeral,” he says in a shaky voice. The lid pops free and he squats down.

”Yeah?”

”Yeah.” It takes a few tries to light the match. ”I don't remember much. Dad laid her down, and then he just broke down. Like totally, completely broke down. Started crying and pointing at the graves around us, saying 'that's my friend, that's my friend, that's my friend too' and then one of mom's friends took me away. That's the last time I saw Cor.”

Gladio curses. ”Shit, kid.”

The candle catches fire and Prompto screws the lid back on. He sets it down between the two plaques and stands up. He steps over to the next grave, digs his shoe into gravel while gazing down at a name he recognizes. ”This one used to feed me pastries whenever he came over,” he says. ”I think he'd married a baker from Galahd or something, and every time I saw him visit, he had one of those little Galahdian sweets, you know the ones with the flaky dough and the sweet, sticky filling.”

A soft sigh spills from Gladio's lips and Prompto finds himself pulled into a hug just like the one at the first grave. ”Really makes one think,” he murmurs, gazing at the rows and rows of tiny little grave slots continuing all the way up to the lush hedges lining the cemetery. There's a temple somewhere far behind their backs, but in the direction they're looking at, the first building is already a tall, imposing skyscraper.

Prompto has nothing else to say, so he listens to Gladio speak. ”I know I lived through the tail end of the war, but I was really too young to understand what was really going on. Small blessings, I guess.” He guffaws and falls silent for a moment. ”I think my first memory of anything relating to the war is from when Regis took down the Wall. I just – understood that it had to mean something really big, and that it was a good thing, and that if we didn't need to be defended like that anymore then we probably weren't in danger either.”

Prompto nods his head against Gladio's shoulder. He would've been around five when the Wall came down, and though he knows his parents took him out to watch the event, he has no memories of actually being out in the streets that day. ”I just remember the picture that was on all the newspapers at the time,” he says. ”You know the one.”

”Kinda hard not to, seeing as I'm in it,” Gladio chuckles. ”Sometimes I almost wish I'd been just a little older, so I could've appreciated the moment more. Honestly felt like a really lackluster lights show back then.”

Prompto laughs and nudges Gladio's side. ”I still can't believe I actually lived through something like that,” he says, then flushes and gestigulates at the graves around them. ”I mean, I know the world still isn't over the war, but like–”

”Nah, I get what you mean,” Gladio says. ”We done here?”

”Yeah, sure.” Prompto casts one last look at his parents' grave and lets himself be led away.

* * *

Back in the car, Prompto fiddles with his seatbelt. There's a tought spinning around in his head almost to the point of bothering him, one he knows he has every right to express. Still, it takes a long time of hemming and hesitating before he lets the first words spill, and even then he's nervous.

”Hey, uh,” he begins, eyeing Gladio who gives him a quick glance. ”Do you think – maybe – I kind of–”

He cuts himself off and bites down on his lip. A deep breath later, he tries again: ”Dad wrote me that letter.”

The words are fast and quiet, and Gladio's response is so belated Prompto begins to think the wasn't clear enough. ”Yeah,” Gladio says slowly. ”You wanna go read it now?”

Prompto shrugs. ”Yeah, I guess,” he mumbles. ”Or at least pick it up. They said I could do that, right? That I could just walk in and ask for it.”

”Mm-hm, that's true.” They stop at a red light and Gladio turns to look at him properly. ”You sure you want to do this?”

A quick nod. ”I want to,” he says, and that's that. They drive to the police station and walk in, and a moment later, Prompto hands over his ID card and fills a couple forms. They're told there's a short wait time, that they should go get a cup of coffee or something, and that's what they do. There's a small café opposite of the police station and when they walk in, the line consists mostly of people in blue uniforms waiting for their caffeine shots and breakfast sandwiches.

There's a TV in the café. Prompto orders a cup of tea and a spicy meat bun, and while the staff heats his pastry, he keeps his eyes on the TV screen; it's showing the service at the Royal Temple of Bahamut, and every now and then, the camera will pan over to Regis and Noctis sitting in two gilded chairs to the side of the altar. Clarus, Iris, and Ignis sit on the first pew, as well as a whole bunch of nobles Prompto knows he should recognize. Later in the day, the Crown will hand out medals for distinguished mothers (whatever that means), and then there'll be a couple more events and celebrations.

”You know, I really had no idea what day it was today,” Prompto says when they sit down at a table. Gladio has a cup of black coffee and a bagel lathered in cream cheese and smoked salmon.

”I'd never have guessed,” Gladio grins.

Prompto rolls his eyes with a huff. ”You know I only have a hand-drawn calendar,” he admits, a bit embarrassed. ”Mother's Day isn't exactly something I'd need to remember. Oh, why aren't you at the service, by the way? I would've thought it something you'd need to do.”

Gladio shakes his head. ”I'd rather go see mom's grave in person than sit through the service,” he says, taking a gulp of his coffee. ”I'll attend the rest of the celebrations after lunch, but I always have the morning free. Unless there's reason to believe Noct's in danger, I mean.”

It's half past eight in the morning. Prompto nods, sighing. ”I really should make a list of these sorts of things,” he says. ”One morning I'll wake up to an empty house and freak out, only to find out it's like, I don't know, the King's birthday or something.”

”Sorry to say this buddy, but I think that's the sort of a thing you'd get invited to, these days.”

Prompto groans and picks up his bun.

* * *

When they return to the station, someone comes over to lead Prompto to a different room. He asks Gladio to wait at the front, then follows the officer into the depths of the building; once inside, a small slip of a paper in a plastic pocket is placed on the table before him, and that's it.

The word 'letter' had led Prompto to think of an actual, sealed envelope, which in hindsight was a pretty dumb thing to assume. Instead he finds himself staring at a torn piece of paper not much larger than his palm – from the notebook on the fridge, the one they used for grocery lists, Prompto realizes almost numbly – and a short message written in regular blue ink and shaky words. He reads the letter, then folds it into the pocket of his suit jacket and walks back out.

Once in the car, Prompto rests his head against the window. ”Can you take me to Cor's?” he asks before Gladio has even backed the car out of the parking slot.

”Uh, sure,” Gladio answers slowly. ”Is he at home?”

”Should be.”

”Can you check?” There's a hint of worry in Gladio's voice, one that Prompto recognizes and hates hearing. ”I don't think you should be alone right now.”

The words make him flinch but Prompto pulls out his phone nevertheless, sends Cor a quick text that's answered almost immediately. ”He's home,” he says in a dejected voice. Gladio hums in acknowledgement and turns the car towards Cor's neighborhood.

The ride continues in silence. Prompto stares out of the window, tries to admire the sunny streets and the sudden burst of flowers blooming in places that grew nothing but green just a few days earlier. They pass a park, where more than one family is enjoying a picnic, and a sudden thought strikes him.

”Hey, uh, what about Iggy's parents?” Prompto asks. ”Like – are they dead or–”

”What? Shit, kid, no,” Gladio cuts in, a shocked laugh bubbling from his throat. ”No, no, no, they're both alive and – well, decent enough. His mum's a little sickly, but nothing too bad.”

”Damn, there goes our club,” Prompto tries to joke, but somehow the jest feels flat on his tongue. ”Seriously, though, I just realized I don't really know anything about them. Like Iggy'll say things like 'my mother taught me this' or 'this is one of my father's recipes' and then I never got around to asking if they're, like, dead or alive. 'Cause that's not something you just ask a person.”

Gladio laughs. ”Sweet Shiva, kid. Yeah, they're alive, they just live in Tenebrae these days. They used to stay here when Iggy was still a minor, but they returned home pretty quick after. The three of them get along pretty well, I guess, but they're just not very – affectionate with each other.”

”Huh.” It's a good thing to hear, one that brings a small smile to Prompto's lips. At least one of them still has their entire family left.

* * *

Cor is lounging in the armchair in the living room when Prompto enters the apartment, the TV on and a sword magazine open on his lap. Prompto greets him, then tugs at his tie. ”I'll just go change,” he says. Cor nods, silent, and turns over a new page, which he's still reading when Prompto returns wearing old jeans and a sleeveless shirt.

Groaning, Prompto throws himself face-down on the couch, then rolls around to his back to face Cor. ”Gladio and I went to the cemetery,” he says.

”Ah,” Cor breathes, looking a bit surprised. ”I did wonder about the suit.”

”Uh-huh.” Prompto pulls a pillow under his head and wraps his arms around it. ”Saw the carnations, too.”

”Yeah? Didn't think you'd remember that.” The grin tugging at Cor's lips is faint but there.

”I don't, not really,” Prompto shrugs. ”I just know they're a thing.”

”Crummy military humor, more like,” Cor says. Prompto tries to laugh but he's not very successful, and Cor looks at him with an expression telling him to talk. It's a relatively new one, developed after countless tries at asking Prompto to describe if he's okay or not.

”We went to get dad's letter after.” Prompto stares at the ceiling, at the uneven coating casting shadows around the light fixtures. There's a sound like thick, glossy paper trembling, and he knows without looking over that he's managed to startle Cor.

”Yeah?” Cor asks. Prompto glances over just in time to see him put the magazine away. ”You read it then?”

”Wasn't much,” Prompto sighs. ”At least it's done now.”

”You good?”

”Yeah, sure.” Cor has one eyebrow raised, so Prompto concedes: ”Just... thinking. About stuff.”

”Been a long day already, huh.”

It's not even noon yet and Prompto's already beginning to feel tired. The letter burns in his jeans pocket, stuffy plastic hot against his skin. ”You wanna read it?”

Cor is silent for so long that Prompto looks over. ”I'm not sure if I should,” the older man says eventually, hands resting on his knees. ”It wasn't meant for me, was it?”

Shaking his head, Prompto reaches to pull the letter from his pocket. He holds it over, waits to see what Cor will do; after a moment, he hears a soft sigh and then Cor takes the letter, plastic slipping away from his grasp. It only takes a scarce few seconds to read the message, that's how short it is, and Prompto spots the exact moment Cor finishes; his body slumps forward, eyes closed, as a deep sigh falls from his lips.

There's little to say about the letter. Cor puts it down on the table, right next to his magazine, then leans back in the armchair. ”Want to talk about it?” he asks.

Prompto shakes his head. ”Not really,” then continues because he knows it's expected of him: ”this isn't that kind of a down.”

Cor looks like he doesn't entirely believe his words, but keeps silent nevertheless. He tosses a fleece throw at Prompto's lap and picks up his magazine once more. ”Take a nap, you look like you need it.”

Prompto wants to protest, to say he isn't sleepy – even if he's exhausted inside – but instead he tugs at the throw until it unfurls over his body, then tucks one end under his feet and the other in the crook of his neck. The couch dips a little towards the backrest and he rolls over, snuggles deep in the worn pillows. There's no other sound in the room but the soft hush of the TV and the occasional swish of a page being turned, but that's just fine. Prompto closes his eyes and tries to get some rest.


End file.
